The Predicament
by Kira Loves
Summary: Sherlock has finally returned to Watson after having dropped off his clue that he was still alive. However, his incessant summoning is aiding in Watson's already strained marriage. An argument is had and all looks to be lost...or is it? Slash. Based on RDJ and Jude Law films.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So I decided to write Holmes/Watson mini story in support of the couple. No literally, I'm doing it in support of them being an actual couple. There's a petition online to keep the tasty gay greatness going on between them into the "possible" third film. So you should go sign it. Since I can't post a link on FF, you should look it up on google. Just type in: Holmes/Watson For The Third Movie. Sign it. If it asks you to donate money, ignore it. No money is needed. :)**

"Don't play naive with me, Holmes," John said.

The words came from clenched teeth and a mouth that moved as minimally as possible. Watson's well groomed moustache moved slightly though with the strained words and Holmes had the curious urge to reach out and touch it. However he remained still, calmly sipping at hard scotch. It tasted poorly and the burn crawling down his throat wasn't much more than a tickle. He much preferred the embalming fluid but Watson insisted otherwise.

"Naivety is not something I posses, Watson," Holmes said as a matter of fact, "play or otherwise."

_He's going to make me tear out my hair. I'm literally going to reach up and tear out every strand from my scalp!_ Watson thought to himself, resisting the urge to bring his stressed fingers to his 'M' shaped hairline not, of course, to actually tear out his hair but rather in attempts to not run his hand through his hair. That gesture always signified a sense of defeat and if Watson backed down now he'd surely never get to the bottom of things.

Holmes had been in hiding for almost a year now though Watson couldn't say why. There was the obvious reason naturally. People thought he was dead and it would be quite discomforting to see that he wasn't but then Sherlock was never the the sort to concern himself with the feelings of others. He would try on occasion to care but something would always go wrong with the execution. It was a pity really.

The only person who was aware of Holmes surviving his encounter with Moriarty was Watson. He knew it first when he'd received the package with the little oxygen machine. He deduced rather quickly that Holmes was alive and at first he was excited. His closest and dearest friend was alive! He could have climbed to the rooftops and shouted to all of England but instead he kept his joy quiet assuming that Holmes intended his survival to remain a secret.

Soon though excitement turned into anticipation which then turned into impatience and finally metamorphisized into heartbreak. Nearly six months after the package there had still been no sign of Holmes. Watson hated to admit but he felt rather abandoned by Holmes. He was sure he had his reasons but reasons be damned. His dearest companion had dangled his survival in Watson's face only to never follow through with a return. Watson was beginning to wonder if he'd ever see Holmes again and the thought of not having that crazed man come back into his life hurt almost as much as him being dead.

"Why are doing this?" Watson asked, "It's not like you to be this way with me!"

Holmes eventually had come home and probably in the most anticlimactic way conceivable. Mary had gone out for a visit with her mother and she insisted that John stay home and not to concern himself with it. Mary's mother often faked illness in order to get her daughter's attention and Mary didn't want her husband to waste his time on nonsense. John had difficulty arguing with the notion especially considering that one of the factories had an accident which had caused an alarming number of injuries and well, John _was_ a doctor.

So John had come home from a long day of inspecting sewn up appendages and delivering much needed drugs to find Holmes sitting at his desk, reading the paper and sipping embalming fluid from a glass. He didn't even look up from the paper until Watson had incredulously stated Holmes' name and dropped his briefcase. Holmes glanced up without even a smile on his face. He was in that mood of his; that calm, domestic demeanor that Watson seemed to bring out in him.

"I suppose you missed me?" the detective had said to the doctor.

Watson of course responded with something that conveyed irritation and attempted to mask his overwhelming sense of emotions. Holmes of course said something equally catty. It was if they were a couple arguing about a much more mundane time frame, as if Holmes had said he'd gone out to an appointment and came back an hour later as opposed to the realities of him faking his death and then being late by half a year.

Eventually they managed to get to a place in the conversation where Holmes awkwardly and somewhat begrudgingly made an apology and Watson accepted and gave a genuine though watered down expression of how happy he was that Holmes had returned. Arrangements were made and manly embrace was had and all was well for a time.

"I'm not being any sort of way with you," Holmes responded.

Holmes stared very intently at Watson. Watson, in his fit had gotten up and stood over Holmes. Watson had his hands on the arms of the chair and Holmes simply moved around him as if Watson weren't even there. Now though, the glass of sub par alcohol was on the table and Holmes leaned up toward Watson to meet Watson's intense and somewhat angry eyes.

Watson's eyes were an interesting shade of blue. Over the course of their relationship Sherlock had reached the conclusion that was no name that described the shade of light blue mixed with hues of gray and navy. Sherlock had decided in the end to name it Watson blue. Uncreative but what it lacked in imagination it made up for in accuracy. That blue did not exist outside of Watson's eyes which was a pity really...it was Sherlock's favorite shade of blue.

Sherlock still hadn't fully divulged his intentions for his secrecy to Watson but then he never fully divulged anything to Watson. So it wasn't as if this situation was really so out of the normal routine. What was irking Watson was that Sherlock repeatedly summoned Watson, claiming emergencies and urging Watson to come to him with the up most haste only to find Sherlock in the middle of some strange experiment. It was never anything important and Watson caught on to that quickly. It irritated him greatly but Sherlock expanded his please and requests making them more elaborate and dire each time to lure Watson in.

Mary was beginning to get suspicious. Not only suspicious but jealous as well. She was beginning to accuse John of having a mistress which put further strain on there marriage. As if it weren't already strained enough what with their spark burning out and their inability to have children.

That's what really had started to cause the forcedness and slow death of their marriage; infertility. Of course, John wasn't sure if it was him or Mary or perhaps the combination of him and Mary. They couldn't even conceive and it broke both their hearts really. Mary was beside herself and John was quietly heartbroken. He'd really been looking forward to the joy of normal domesticity, being married, being a father, but it was all just a disappointment.

Watson hated to admit it but he was often happy when he got to Sherlock's little apartment above the shop he worked in part time (under a name and disguise of course). Sherlock invented little, fairly useless this and thats to sell in the store which justified his experiments and messes to the owner. It worked out rather neatly in the end.

Still, Watson had missed the odd smells of chemicals, the cornucopia of pictures and strings and seemingly random items. Watson missed Sherlock's manic excitement and the way the other man's eyes sparkled as he explained some new discovery and proceeded to demonstrate it whatever the danger it may cause. Watson missed the mysteries and adventures. He missed how Sherlock seemed to absorb the world and expand it all at once.

On the other hand, Watson also missed _their_ version of domesticity. It was far from normal or natural but it was a domesticity. Sherlock and John had this inexplicable comfort and routine to them that never got boring but rather continued to be comforting and pleasant. Sure, it seemed strange that the vibes of partnership and home were placed on a back drop of mystery, murder, and on most occasions explosions but that feeling and that nature to their relationship was what made all the adventure bearable. No matter where they went or what they did they need not worry about coming home. As long as they were together they were already home.

Watson's gaze softened. He shouldn't be this angry but is was unavoidable. Whether Sherlock could accept it or not Watson had a wife that he needed to be his home. He needed to mend things with her somehow and continue making his life with her as he had vowed. Sherlock needed to stop calling Watson to him and let Watson live the life he was supposed to live.

"Honestly, Holmes," Watson said with a sigh, "this needs to stop and you know it."

Sherlock dropped his own gaze for a moment. He brought a hand to his lips, extended it toward Watson, hesitated and brought it back to his lips. Sherlock's mind was in a flurry of possible actions and possible outcomes. Which was the wisest path to pursue? Was the wisest the most desirable? In the case of Watson, what was the more productive course of action? That which was wise or that which was desired?

"I'm in a predicament Watson," Sherlock admitted after a moment.

Watson listened to this with an open mind. The statement had been genuine and Watson could see that. Watson removed himself from hanging over Sherlock and took a seat across from him.

"Tell me," Watson said as he crossed his arms and let them rest at his chest, "what sort of predicament would puzzle the great Sherlock Holmes?"

Half sarcasm and half sincerity. Their domesticity at its best.

Sherlock brought his leg up and let his ankle rest on his other knee. He leaned back. Watson moving away was undesirable but the wisest of options or so he supposed.

Sherlock had so much trouble when it came to what was wanted and what was wise. It wasn't so much that Sherlock was a conflicted hedonist but rather he simply did not always see the validity in abiding by certain institutions and societal rules. Of course, there were valid rules that perpetuated certain favorable things. Banning stealing and killing from society effectively let individuals keep property and allowed the species to maintain preservation. Both to a degree of course but more so with society backing up the notions than if society didn't.

However, there were societal norms that Sherlock saw no real or vital benefit from for example, marriage. Marriage made it so that one man and one woman were bound to one another until death. It seemed like a prison sentence in that regard; until death do they part. It couldn't be said that the one man and one woman aspect was done in hopes of encouraging procreation. Procreation stood considerably better on the shoulders of promiscuity than it did with marriage. As far as ensuring that women and children were taken care of the world would benefit considerably from female independence. Not that the male half of the equation should be without responsibility but integrity and responsibility should be promoted not the spectacle that is marriage. Not too mention if female independence was encouraged and executed properly women would be greatly improved. They might even grow to have real personalities.

Sherlock shook his head. He'd gone and spiraled his theories out again. He may possess grand knowledge and observational skills but he often lacked precision. There was just so much to see and know that Sherlock's mind became lost in the details. He needed his center. He needed his focus.

He needed Watson.

"I will say this as bluntly as possible and I beg you take it with all seriousness," Sherlock said, "I need you, Watson."

The room was silent. Watson debated a chuckle. Surely Sherlock was joking. It wasn't in his nature to be so blunt. No, it was in his nature to be blunt from time to time but not with something such as this.

Then Watson became angry. So Holmes was suggesting that he would come to his call yet again. What exactly was it that Holme's needed Watson for anyway? To clean up his messes? To drag him out into the sunlight now and then? To let him kill his dog _again_?

There had been a demand in Sherlock's tone. It was a factual, flat tone but it hinted resignation. This wasn't a command. Sherlock was admitting something, not demanding let his anger disperse and he felt concern rise to take its place as he noticed the fragile aura around his friend.

"You," Watson said for clarification, "need me?"

Sherlock looked up from the floor. He made fierce eye contact with the doctor the likes of which Watson had only seen once or twice in his life time.

"Quite desperately, I'm afraid," Holmes confessed.

So it was indeed an honest, heart felt confession. Watson was too surprised to respond at first but it didn't matter. Holmes continued on, his eyes aimed and focused on Watson with a determination and ferocity that Watson had only seen Holmes direct into his cases and theories. There was a vulnerability too but a brave vulnerability and that was something Watson had never seen and he was captivated by it.

"Come away with me, Watson," Sherlock asked, "It's not too late to leave Mary and I give you my word that I would assist you in supporting her financially. She need not suffer from your leaving."

Watson was now at a complete loss for words. How could he respond to that sort of proposal? In a way he knew it was coming. They always tended to build conversation to the point but one way or another they would shy away from it. Watson hadn't expected Holmes to successfully bring it up but then Watson never expected himself to allow it.

"This is not a suggestion. This is not a proposal or a question, Watson," Holmes said, still refusing to break eye contact.

Holmes stood up from his seat. He took the few steps necessary to cross the distance between himself and Watson. He then dropped to his knees and took his friend's hand in his own.

"This is me begging you," he said, at long last breaking his gaze.

For the first time, Holmes chose what he wanted over what he thought was wise. He only hoped that Watson would make the same decision.

"I-I can't," Watson said.

Disappointment. Despair. Heartbreak. Absolute anguish. Holmes immediately stood to his feet and turned his back to Watson. Holme's stared out the window and crossed his arms. He held his face in as straight an expression as possible. He couldn't be sad. He'd predicted this. Why mourn over something he saw coming?

"Then I'll ask you kindly to leave," Sherlock said, his voice unable to bar against the tone of anger.

"Holmes," Watson said, "I'm sorry, believe me-"

"Sorry?"

Holmes spun around unable to stop himself. He was becoming manic again. He walked toward Watson and invaded the other man's space. He stood too close to him, his face confronting Watson's.

"Don't apologize," Holmes said, "You've merely sped up the death of my usefulness and as a consequence the death of myself."

Watson felt anger spark in himself. At first he had felt guilty and pitied Holmes. Now he simply felt his frustration with the detective. How could he ask him this? Was he really so selfish? And did he honestly expect to put all the blame on Watson?

"Are you saying that my leaving will be the death of you?"

"If you need to simplify it; yes."

"Holmes! You cannot honestly put your livelihood under my responsibility! You are a grown man. You need to stop your games and settle down. It's time you led a normal life!"

"Oh and I suppose you expect me to be fulfilled by that? You're not even fulfilled by it. You simply tell yourself you should be and hope it will be so!"

"I am fulfilled!"

"Really? How are those children coming along, John?"

Sherlock stumbled backwards as a repercussion of Watson's hit. The room had once more gone silent as Holmes steadied himself. He brought a hand to his aching jaw and cradled it. Watson had been cross with Holmes on several occasions. He had yelled at him, even hit him in the arm a few times but Watson had never _really_ hit Holmes.

The cold glare that Watson had solidified things further. They had finally reached their end. Their relationship, their partnership had at long last run its course. John Watson turned away from Sherlock wordlessly. The punch and his eyes had said everything that he'd needed to say. He left the apartment, slamming the door as if forcing Holmes to further understand that this, whatever it was, was over.

Sherlock let his hand fall from his jaw. Logically, he figured that drinking would numb the pain in his mouth. He skipped over the average man's alcohol and went straight for his embalming fluid. He had a whole bottle. Holmes knew exactly just how much embalming fluid it would take to kill a man but as he picked up the bottle and sat back down in his chair he pondered testing the theory.

_After all, I can't quite claim it as a fact unless I absolutely know from experience. An experiment is in order._

**A/N: I swear unto you while this is starting out sad, it will not end sad! I will write a happy ending so help me. Leave reviews and love! Remember to go sign the petition too but more importantly DO NOT DONATE MONEY. The cause is free and is simply meant to raise awareness that we as a fan base encourage and are okay with the gay.: )**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Oh my gosh! I don't have actual chapter names for this fic. D: OH. WELL. Also, I saw a couple more signatures on the petition for Holmes/Watson. :D :D :D ALL THE SMILES. Make sure and tell your friends and other supporters.**

Sherlock was rather disoriented and ill as he woke up the next morning. He was lying on the floor originally on his side but he had now shifted to his back. The bottle of embalming fluid had been spilled all over much earlier that morning and Sherlock felt his stomach turn at the scent of his soaked floor.

_It appears I got so inebriated that I was unfit to finish my experiment._

_Damn._

Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man who would kill himself. True if it were the absolute only solution to a problem Sherlock would have to take action and commit suicide by default. However, Sherlock was not looking at the situation as a means of killing himself at the moment. If he had in fact drank to the point of poisoning and as a result death by alcohol then Sherlock would have had his answer. What Sherlock had hoped was that he could bring himself to the very brink but just the very brink of death so that he would know that alcohol poisoning was an acceptable and viable means of suicide in the future.

However, Sherlock did not feel as if he'd even neared poisoning himself. In fact, his mix of nausea, discomfort and hyper sensitivity was no more than the average of when he'd had a bit much. Granted he hadn't a bit much since he was a boy but that was irrelevant.

_Seems my body shut down and put me into a sleep to avoid getting into a further alcoholic stupor. Usually that would be beneficial but not when one is attempting suicide. Perhaps I can use the alcohol as an aid? Mix it with some other chemical. I'm sure Watson could find some-_

Watson; there was thought of him once more in Sherlock's mind. It would be redundant to say that it was ever present, floating around in the detective's skull and awaiting recognition. _All_ of Sherlock's thoughts and observation were ever present and awaiting recognition. Not that Sherlock was unaware of them. It was just difficult to focus and give proper attention to one detail when there was a masterpiece of intertwined knowledge and facts and theories.

It was never difficult to focus on Watson though. Despite an entire world, an entire universe existing both in and outside of Sherlock's mind, Watson always came into focus. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to put it but at his core and center there were only three desires; to learn, to solve, and to be with Watson.

Of course it made sense that he'd want to be in Watson's company. As much as Sherlock would like to boil down their relationship to a reasoning of allies being beneficial and Watson proving himself both adept and trustworthy Sherlock knew it was more than that. Sherlock cared for his only friend and companion. He was the only person in the world that looked at Sherlock for what he was; a person.

Often the world saw Sherlock as he saw the world; a challenge, an aid, an amusement, a nuisance. That which Sherlock felt toward others was often relfected back toward him. Moriarty for example. Sherlock did not see Moriarty as his mortal enemy but rather a chess opponent and Moriarty felt the same way. It was a mutual game between them. Shame really that Moriarty had other goals and liked to play dirty but then he was no longer among the living so less of a shame now.

Sherlock lifted himself off the floor slowly much to his head's chagrin He rubbed at his temples hoping to soothe his enraged migraine and it seemed effective but not as effective as Sherlock wanted it to be.

There was a knock on the door and Sherlock nearly blacked out from the over stimulation of it. It was so loud as if someone was knocking on the inside of Sherlock's skull. He closed his eyes tight, excluding the sunlight from his vision which somehow made the thunderous noise more bearable.

"Mr. Law," the downstairs shop owner asked, "are you all right?"

_Oh, of course,_ Sherlock thought, _Mr. Ravensdale is expecting an invention today._

"Ravensdale!" Sherlock lowered his voice and made it more gruff but also boisterous and happy "My good man, I've told you a hundred times; you may call me Robert."

Sherlock had chosen to go under the guise of Robert Law. He wasn't sure why he'd chosen such a name. It seemed to pop into his head and he liked the sound of it so much that he'd settled on it in a matter of a mere second.

Sherlock's head was still swimming but he tried his best to keep up his act. It was important that Oliver Ravensdale, the timid but kindly shop owner, continue to believe that Sherlock was this very manly yet friendly inventor. The friendliness was to draw Oliver in but the heightened masculinity was to make him skittish enough to leave Sherlock alone. Sherlock had a wonderful false beard and nose that went along with his guise but such applications were tedious to put on at moment's notice let alone when one was hung over.

"Listen, Ravensdale," Sherlock shouted despite his head's complaints, "I'm in the middle of something rather grand at the moment. I'm afraid I'll need a few more days."

"Oh-but I, Mr. L- Robert," Oliver had a high voice, he was a thin man who was henpecked to the bone by his wife at home but he was the kind of man who really didn't mind either, "I've run out of that marvelous device you made the other day- the, um, one that-"

"Of course, Oliver!" Sherlock stated, "I've made several more, I put them up in the window the other night. Didn't you see them?"

Sherlock was tiring of the charade more and more as the days passed. He was lucky enough to have found a man who could be so easily manipulated, not the Sherlock had ill intentions but manipulation is manipulation regardless of circumstance. It was absolute luck that led to such a person existing in the world but Sherlock began to detest his luck. If only there were no Oliver Ravensdale, then Sherlock would have simply had to have returned to Watson and recreate his life as it had been but then if Sherlock had returned he would have had no opportunity to begin creating the basis of a life for himself and Watson.

As Oliver began to fade away and back down the stairs to his little shop of knickknacks, Sherlock began to question why it is that he wanted Watson to come run away with him. It certainly sounded a bit too _romantic_ for a pair of good friends, didn't it?

Sherlock felt awkward as he tried to face that thought. This is why he didn't bother with much self inspection. Why bother with something as mundane as one's own feelings when there was so much more to see and know and experience and test? However, the thought had made itself known and Sherlock couldn't help but ponder.

_Perhaps,_ he thought as his fingers grazed the alcohol soaked carpet, _my attachment toward Watson runs a tad deeper than mere companionship._

There were the lingering touches, the lingering looks, the lingering sentiments. All lingering but lingering on what? To linger meant to last for a long time or come to a slow end. Did Sherlock and Watson linger because they wanted to last for a long time or because they were slowly coming to an end?

_Came to an end._ Sherlock corrected himself. From Watson's exit the previous day it was made quite clear that Watson had no intention of ever speaking to Holmes again. The detective had struck too raw a nerve and while he didn't want to admit it he was aware of it. He had most certainly crossed a line and Sherlock was sure John would never forgive him.

Sherlock lowered himself back to the floor and turned to lie on his side. He stopped clenching his eyes and let them rest at a close. There was no sense in trying to provide a life for Watson to run away to now that Watson had turned his back on Holmes. It was all Holmes fault too though he couldn't admit it.

_Why did you have to marry her, John?_ Holmes let his knees come to his chest, _I would have been infinitely happier if you hadn't. _We_ would have been infinitely happier._

The day before, the last day Watson had visited Holmes, Mary had once again been off visiting her sick mother. Holmes had Watson for a full three days and it was truly marvelous. It was like the old days when they used to live together. Of course, they were in considerably smaller quarters and it'd been quite some time since they last shared a bed together but neither though twice of it.

Holmes recalled his desire to reach out and touch his sleeping doctor. He was as quiet as a mouse with the exception of a rare snore or two. At one point, Holmes simply gave in to what he felt was natural. He had reached over and put his hand on top of Watson's. The heat from Watson's hand radiated in Sherlock's palm. Sherlock had even curled his fingers a little into Watson's and he felt so at peace and so calmed that he fell asleep in a matter of minutes. It was some of the best sleep Sherlock had ever gotten.

Sherlock began to fall asleep as he lied there recalling the feeling. Remembering Watson was a moot point though. Sherlock knew he ought to just let the thought Watson go, just release all notions of him entirely. He'd done it with Irene rather easily so why not with Watson?

_Oh, Watson, I'm beginning to fear what you are to me._

Sherlock let out a deep breath. _Or shall I say were to me?_

Hours later, Sherlock was in the same position he'd been in when he had fallen asleep. He was once more woken up by knocking but this time it was slow knock. Each thud on the door was weak and heavily spaced from its brothers.

"Yes, Oliver?" Sherlock mustered up a tired attempt or his facade.

"...Holmes..."

Sherlock got to his feet and approached the door. What he had just heard was the unmistakable voice of his one and only companion but it didn't sound right. It was too quiet and too fragile to be Watson. It was too broken sounding to be Watson.

Sherlock had managed to sleep off the majority of his symptoms and quickly made his way to the door. He opened it up to find Watson almost as drunk as Sherlock had been just the day before. Watson immediately fell into Sherlock's arms and Sherlock pushed hard to carry the other man's practically dead weight.

"Watson, whatever is the matter with you?"

Watson began tearing up. It was so unlike him in every way. Watson was often a very strong willed individual. He was so resilient, almost as resilient as Sherlock. His emotional distress furthered Holmes' concern. Watson held on to Sherlock tightly, his voice was rasped and sore, as if he'd been screaming. Sherlock watched with wide eyes as Watson clutched Sherlock's shirt, buried his face into Sherlock's chest, and cried;

"Mary's dead."

**A/N: I know, I know. I dished out more sadness. But hey! You know what? Mary really did die in the books so there, I'm not just doing this just because. And I PROMISE a happy ending. It's just going to take a bit to get there. I predicted three chapters but depending on how things go, it might get stretched to four or five. We'll see. Reviews and love! Oh and don't forget to sign the petition! :D**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Mfff, my life right! My computer died in the middle of my writing and I lost EVERYTHING. So I'm rewriting this again. For you guys. Because I love you. All of you.**

Holmes felt awkward holding Watson in his arms. It was strange to have the slightly taller man hunching down and into him, pressing his face into Sherlock's chest as if trying to hide in his warmth. Watson curled desperate fingers into Sherlock's shirt as he wept openly to him.

It was so strange to have Watson crying. Watson never sobbed or wept. He was nearly as composed as Holmes was. Watson could have a temper on occasion when it came to Sherlock and he had a much happier disposition than Holmes could ever even pretend to have but sorrow was not something that marked Watson. Holmes was at a loss for what was expected of him. Watson never fell apart. His dear doctor never fell apart. If anything it was more in Holmes' likelihood to have some sort of break down. Usually Watson picked up the pieces. Holmes simply was not prepared for this.

Holmes carefully reached over and closed the door. He didn't need Oliver coming upstairs and seeing the two of them like this, especially with Sherlock not in disguise. Just as Holmes had created a new name for himself he had given Watson his own new identity to claim; Jude Downey. Holmes felt it suited Watson perfectly. In fact, he much preferred it over Robert Law though it admittedly didn't roll off the tongue as well as the latter did.

Jude Downey was an old friend of Robert's, or so the false story had been weaved. Robert would often call Jude down to assist him with certain inventions. Oliver had taken the lie with such ease that he told the men that Jude never need check in with him if it be bothersome. So Watson had the habit of entering through the back and Oliver was never the wiser.

Holmes assumed Watson had done the same for this situation but still, he couldn't risk the commotion capturing Oliver's attention. So the door was shut and locked. Watson still clung to Holmes. Holmes put his hands on his friend's causing Watson to look up at him.

"What is this about, Watson?" Sherlock asked.

He had heard Watson say that Mary was dead but he didn't understand. How could Mary possibly be dead? She wasn't ill. No one was after her life as far as Holmes knew and he did keep a watch on her for such a thing. Not specifically her, more so Watson but since they were married he also more or less inadvertently kept watch on her as well. There was no reason for her to have passed away. Holmes was hoping he'd misheard but as Watson repeated the sentiment he confirmed that he had heard correctly.

"There was an accident with the train." Watson said, still holding to Sherlock's shirt, "One o the parts was manufactured incorrectly and it gave way. The whole train in an inferno!"

"Oh my," Holmes said, meaning with absolute sincerity.

"She's gone, Holmes," Watson said, becoming emotional once more albeit a calmer emotional, "She's gone."

Sherlock's arms seemed to take on a life of their own and he brought Watson's body closer to his. He held him dearly and without the smallest semblance of awkwardness. Watson's fingers once more curled deeply into the other man's shirt. Holmes felt Watson's tears wetting his chest and he closed his eyes. Much like blocking out the sunlight earlier in the day, closing his eyes seemed to make watching Watson's pain more bearable.

Holmes never disliked Mary as a person. In fact, he thought she had a lot of spirit for a woman and certain amount of resiliency Most of women would not put up with Holmes being in Watson's life and Mary didn't want to but she had a certain tolerance for it. She took very good care of Holmes' Watson too, in a way that Holmes never could. If anything, Watson took care of Holmes.

_I'm caring for him now, though. Aren't I?_

It was an honest observation as Holmes held Watson. He stood there strong even as Watson leaned his weight into him. Watson was broken to the point that just standing was difficult. Holmes knew that sort of pain. True, he'd shut it out and he would never admit to it but he knew that pain. He wasn't without his lonely days. He remembered how he felt right after Watson had gotten married. If it wasn't for the fact that Watson and Watson's knew life was under threat Holmes may have just stopped then and there.

"Hush now, Watson," Holmes said such foreign words so gently as he stroked Watson's hair, "I'm here for you, my friend."

"I should have gone with her," Watson murmured as he resurfaced from Sherlock's chest, "I should have been on the train with her."

Holmes was in shock. Did Watson really love her so much? Did his feelings run so deep for her that he'd rather be dead than without her?

_The way I feel when I'm without you?_

"Why would ever wish that on yourself?" Holmes asked, the question coming out more flat than intended.

"I was never a proper husband to her, Holmes," Watson said, his eyes cast down to the floor.

Watson had felt like a failure of a husband long before he heard the news. When he met the man on his doorstep, the man wearing that mixture of guilt and discomfort that doctors so often wear, the look that Watson had on occasion had worn, that failure began to solidify. When the knowledge of Mary's passing had been passed on to him, his failure was absolute. He was no longer failing her, he had failed her entirely and there was no fixing it now. She was gone and his hopes and dreams had died with her.

"The least I could have done was been there by her side," he said bitterly.

_So it's not like my affections. It's his sense of obligation._

Holmes assumed there was love present in Watson and Mary's relationship but it wasn't the sort of love that held the a person together. Mary ultimately represented an ideal to Watson and Watson felt as if he'd done wrong by the ideal. He loved her as well, that was to be true but not in a way that her loss would destroy him. It was possible for Watson to live on.

Holmes cupped Watson's face. He looked deeply into his companion's eyes. Watson blue. It truly was Sherlock's favorite color in all the world.

"And leave me all alone in the world?" Holmes asked, "Whoever would coax me out into the sunlight?"

Instead of taking the statement as a reaffirmation of Watson's importance, Watson seemed angered by it. Watson immediately detached himself from Holmes. There was such a cruel space between them. It was only an arm's length or so but it had been so drastically created that they may as well have been oceans away.

"This is not about you, Holmes," Watson hissed, "This has nothing to do with you!"

Watson made his way to the door. He paused with his hand lingering on the handle. He stared down Holmes with a glare severe enough to cut Holmes in half.

"Why did I even come to you? You never cared for Mary in the first place!"

"You're absolutely right!" Holmes responded quickly.

The notion shocked Watson momentarily before his face shifted into a further expression of anger. Holmes acted quickly to defend his statement, reaching out and holding into Watson's forearm.

"This isn't about me," Holmes said in a soft tone.

Watson's anger melted away. He looked so pitiful standing there. His eyes were near blood shot from his tears. His nose and cheeks were red. His mouth was pulled into an eternally negative expression. His whole body seemed weighed down. He was drunk too, causing him to sway a little.

"This is about you," Holmes continued, "I urge you, Watson, I beg of you to stay with me. You're not safe alone and I shall not allow the death of another so soon."

This seemed to make sense to Watson. He was still somewhat unhappy with Holmes but he walked away from the door and to the bed. Watson sat there at first and just stared at Holmes. It was much softer than his stare before. It almost seemed to be like his usual stare of annoyance but this stare was marked by some kind of emotion that Holmes, surprisingly, could not name.

Watson then laid down. He turned away from Holmes. Holmes walked over to the bed and sat down on what little space was left on it. When they had shared the small bed they were such close proximity that it thrilled Holmes. He realized that as he turned slightly and put a hand on Watson's shoulder.

"Before you sleep," he said, "I thought you should know that I am deeply sorry for my remark the other day. I was sorry the moment it left my mouth. However, my apology is considerably deeper now, you understand?"

"Yes, Holmes," Watson said softly, "I understand."

"I hope you recall all of this once you're sober," Holmes murmured more to himself than Watson.

"Holmes," Watson said flatly, "I'm not drunk. I'm upset."

This surprised the detective. Then again, he had neglected to notice any scent of alcohol. Perhaps being upset and being drunk merely looked very similar.

"With all due respect," Holmes said, "the appearance of both have little difference between them."

"You've been out of practice, Holmes," Watson said with a halfhearted laugh.

"I'm never out of practice," Holmes said as he rubbed his hand up and down Watson's arm, "I was merely distracted."

Watson did not respond to that. Holmes made nothing of it. He simply allowed Watson to fall asleep and rightfully so. Watson was exhausted and rest would certainly help him on his road to recovery. As Sherlock sat there, watching his sleeping Watson, he began to wonder what would become of Watson. Not only that but what was to become of them? Earlier that day, Holmes had been sure that he and Watson had come to their end but in the midst of tragedy there was hope. Not that Sherlock was happy that Mary had died. He was quiet concerned. He intended to make a full investigation of her death but that could wait for another day.

_For now, I must concern myself my Watson._

Holmes laid down on the bed himself, begin careful not to touch Watson. It was difficult in two senses though; because the bed was small and because Holmes _wanted_ to touch Watson. Watson turned himself over, half asleep and faced Holmes. They were practically nose to nose. Holmes could feel Watson's warm breath on his lips and before Holmes could question or ponder anything, he found his lips against Watson's.

It was a quick, soft peck, so quick and soft that it didn't wake Watson. Holmes felt heat creep onto his face as he came to a full realization. His feelings were considerably deeper for Watson than he had ever imagined.

"I...love you," he deduced in a whisper.

**A/N: See? I told you the happy was coming. This is most definately getting stretched out at least by another chapter. Possibly two chapters. I just can't help myself. They give me so many feels. I looked at pictures of Robert and Jude hugging each other and I nearly cried I felt so emotional. Yes, that is the uber extent of my feels. Leave reviews and love! :D**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: And so I keep on rollin' these chappies out. -poses- Thug life.**

Watson was, in a word, depressed. He was perhaps the most depressing creature Holmes had ever looked upon in his life time. Watson refused to get out of bed for anything except the occasional drink of water or need to use the restroom. He just lied there silently staring at the wall the bed was pressed against. If Holmes spoke to him he was either regarded with a mere grunt or sigh if he was regarded at all.

This disturbed Holmes greatly and distressed him even more. Over the course of the last two months Holmes had thoroughly investigated Mary's death to find that it had indeed only been an accident. He wasn't surprised by this. What he was surprised to have found out was that Mary had not been visiting her sick mother; she had been attending her mother's funeral. The old woman's false illnesses somehow became really and she passed away rather quickly. Mary's mother was Mary's last living relative and with Mary gone as well there wasn't a single Morstan left.

Sherlock was deeply curious as to why Watson had not gone with his wife to the funeral but it was considerably difficult to attempt conversation with someone who refused to speak in words anymore. Normally, Holmes would be thrilled to have Watson ever present and sharing his bed but it wasn't enjoyable in the least when Watson wasn't himself. In fact it was rather heartbreaking. Holmes wasn't sure if he could stand another day of watching his secret love and friend waste away.

_Equally pressing, I don't believe I can stand another day of his stench._

Since Watson was normally a very clean individual and since his depression included an aversion to bathing, the smell of Watson had changed drastically. Like his disposition, Watson reeked of stagnation and sourness. It made sleeping next to Watson almost painful for Holmes, who was never too concerned with hygiene to begin with but even he had certain limitations.

Holmes had had more than he could take of standing idly by while Watson lied in his self-loathing and growing odor. Even his lovely mustache had grown wild. Watson was really letting himself go and Holmes had had enough.

"Watson," Holmes said, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder, "you are going to get out of this bed today."

Watson responded with a grunt that Holmes could only assume was a grunt either signifying a decline or grunt signifying indifference. Holmes settled on indifference for the sake of his own goal. Holmes began to help Watson up, trying hard not to breathe too deeply. He managed to get Watson into a sitting position and was now working on getting the doctor to his feet. This change of position seemed to waken Watson's vocabulary and Holmes was more than delighted when he heard Watson say:

"Holmes, why?"

_Well, it may only be two words but it is a start._ Holmes thought as he continued to push and pull until Watson was standing.

Even standing, Watson's weight was still being held up mostly by Holmes not that it was much at this point. Watson had been getting lighter and lighter as the days passed. Still, dead weight was always difficult to move and Holmes ended up half dragging Watson to the opposing wall where a tub stood on the floor. Holmes took a breath before picking up Watson and placing him in the tub. The tub was big enough to hold a man and larger than anything Holmes had ever used. Holmes preferred to use a pitcher and some cloth to bathe as opposed to a tub but the tub was needed for some early experiments. What luck that he hadn't bothered to throw it out.

Watson lied in the tub just as apathetically as he had lain on the bed. His head lolled a little to the side almost like a doll.

"It's cold," Watson observed halfheartedly.

Holmes rolled his eyes and approached the large buckets of water that he had been keeping by the window and sitting in the sunlight. He was aware that some of the water was going to evaporate but at the very least the temperature would be bearable. Holmes one again had to drag something; his arms feeling tired and sore as he brought the heavy buckets to the base of the tub.

The buckets had been difficult enough to come by. Sherlock had been disguised earlier that morning and had Oliver assist him in finding, filling and bringing them back to the small apartment. 'Robert' explained that it was for a new experiment concerning purifying water. Eventually Sherlock intended to claim the project was all for naught but for now he once again was glad that Oliver was so willing to follow especially when Holmes put so little effort into leading.

Holmes looked at Watson lying in the tub and realized that there was still the matter of Watson's clothing. Holmes could have left the clothing on Watson but then there would be the matter of putting out wet clothing to dry and he had already told Oliver that the water was for experimentation not bathing.

"Watson," Holmes said quite factually, "if you're going to get clean then you'll need to remove your clothes and I'll ask you to be prompt about it. I haven't the whole day to waste on prodding you to bathe."

Watson merely looked at Holmes the way a stubborn child would look at his or her mother. Watson was content to lie there in the tub not doing anything just as he was content to have been lying on the bed. Holmes could pick him up and move him all he pleased but it didn't mean Watson was going to comply with whatever it was Holmes was urging.

Holmes was absolutely exasperated at this point. It wasn't as if Watson had never frustrated him before but this was on entirely different plane. Holmes had never cared for Watson in this manner and Watson's stubbornness to not comply with Holmes infuriated him. Why was it now that he was taking care of Watson when Watson was at his peak of being bothersome?

"All right," Sherlock said as he reached into the tub, "if that's the way you want it to be then I won't allow you to waste another moment of my time."

Holmes began undressing Watson which made Watson's eyes wake but only for a moment. The momentary surprise quickly passed from Watson's face and he then went passive once more. This angered Holmes further and he undressed Watson with unnecessary force. He threw the other man's clothes over his shoulder.

"You could stand to be a little less difficult, Watson," Holmes said through gritted teeth.

This whole taking care of another person business was absolutely tiresome. Holmes barely even registered that Watson was now nude in front of him. Instead, Holmes very angrily gripped the buckets of water and poured them into the tub. He even poured a healthy dose of the water over Watson's head before throwing the cloth at him but this earned Holmes little more than a hint of anger from Watson and his continuing apathy.

"Damn you, Watson!" Holmes declared as he stared down Watson closely, "What will it take to get a reaction?"

Holmes simply wanted his friend to return to his old self. He wanted Watson to go back to grooming himself, to working as a doctor, to being his witty companion. He wanted Watson to return to his usual state. At this point he would settle for Watson standing on his own two feet. It was too heart breaking to watch Watson die in front of him especially when everything Holmes tried was ineffective. This was a problem he could not a fix, a mystery he could not solve and it left Holmes powerless.

Holmes pulled off his pants and threw them aside. The shirt he was half wearing was unbuttoned with haste and also discarded. He maneuvered into the bath tub behind Watson. The water sloshed about recklessly and hadn't even settled when Holmes reached for the bathing cloth and began to scrub Watson's back with annoyance.

"If you won't do it yourself," Holmes said with a bite in his voice, "then I will continue doing it in your stead."

"...why are you doing this?" Watson asked his voice soft.

The statement was so quiet and unexpected that it almost caught Holmes off guard. His earlier anger and haste seemed to dissipate. Holmes became aware of their mutual nudity and proximity in a different way and the cloth in his hand now barely touched Watson for fear that Watson would soon catch on as well.

_I'm in a tub with Watson. This is not one of my best decisions._

"So you do recall how to speak," Holmes said.

Biting. Sarcastic. That was good. That was normal.

"Holmes... why?" Watson repeated.

The cloth in Sherlock's hand picked up pace. He moved to Watson's neglected shoulder. Watson was much leaner than he used to be but even now Holmes could see the lean muscle on the other man's arms. Watson was tall and elegant yet his days of athleticism still marked his body in lean curves and soft definitions. His shoulder blades fascinated Holmes. They were gently carved in Watson's back and they led up to what Holmes could only describe as a graceful neck. Holmes had the urge to lean into Watson, to put his lips against that strong yet elegant neck and whisper into the exposed flesh.

Holmes clenched his eyes shut and forced himself to concentrate on losing the arousal that was growing in between his legs.

"I'm trying to take care of you. Have you not done it for me?" Holmes posed a question in return in an attempt to avoid giving his honest answer.

"I've never bathed you before," Watson said flatly.

Again, biting, sarcastic and thusly good if not a bit embarrassing. More importantly, Watson was coming back to life in front of Sherlock's very eyes. Who could have predicted that it only required a little water and some nudity?

"But you would," Holmes quickly pointed out.

"I've certainly debated it," Watson responded.

Holmes felt his heart fleetingly skip a beat. Watson had entertained the idea of bathing him? Well, that was...unexpected.

"After all," Watson continued, "you don't nearly bathe as often as you should."

_Of course, he's insinuating that I maintain poor hygiene. Not that he was interested in being with me naked...as we presently are._

"In the grand scheme of things bathing is of little importance, Watson."

"So little that you felt the need to force it upon me?"

"You didn't protest."

"You didn't ask!"

Holmes and Watson were perhaps the only two men in all of England who could be sitting together, naked in a bath tub and have an argument over hygiene as opposed to an argument regarding why they were naked and in a bath tub. To some degree or another, it must have felt natural. Watson did not shy away or move as he normally would. At this point he was no longer apathetically resigned either. Watson was agreeing and allowing this to take place and Holmes couldn't help but note that.

"Lift your arms please," Holmes directed.

Holmes very carefully reached around Watson's torso. It was an 'incidental' embrace as Holmes gently scrubbed at Watson's chest. Holmes felt Watson's patch of hair and resisted the urge to follow it downward. The detective's thumb also grazed an erect nipple and Holmes had to remind himself that it was most likely due to the coolness of the water.

"You know, Holmes," Watson said suddenly, "I did love her."

Sherlock's heart sank a little and he paused in his scrubbing.

"I know," Holmes regrettably agreed.

"But I've been thinking a lot for the past few days-"

"Months, Watson."

"Months?" Watson was a bit surprised.

"Yes, months," Holmes repeated, regaining a little of his earlier exasperation.

Watson let this process for a minute before letting out a sigh and moving on with his original train of thought.

"I didn't marry Mary for the sake of love alone."

"Oh?" Holmes raised his eyebrows.

This was beginning to prove to be a more productive conversation than Holmes had preconceived. The feeling was furthered as Watson brought his hand up to Sherlock's. Watson pressed his companion's hand hard to his chest. The world went silent around them with the exception of their breathing. Just their breathing in and out and the slow but steady rise of Holmes' heartbeat into his ears.

"I've been avoiding you," Watson admitted, "and I've been avoiding my feelings as well."

_Feelings? Whatever are you talking about Watson? Are you suggesting that you have some sort of romantic interest in me? Explain._

That's what a part of Holmes wanted to say but the usual sarcasm and banter had no place in a conversation such as this. For the first time in their relationship, _Watson_ was the one bringing up something relationally and emotionally imperative. Watson never brought up such subjects.

"I have very deep feeling for you, Holmes" Watson said, sounding nervous and ashamed all at once, "feelings that are clearly inappropriate and unnatural and not to mention illegal. I'm afraid that I-I'm in love with you."

_Mary was a means of escape. Watson realized he had inappropriate feelings for me and thus resolved the issue by obligating himself to another via marriage. Then he attempted to further the distance by no longer aiding me in my work. He's been running from his feelings all this time. Inquire further. Receive confirmation. Offer proposition._

"And what do you propose I do about this?" Holmes asked, being sure to not to lean into Watson and embrace him further.

"Nothing," Watson answered before elaborating, "but I do need to know something for myself. I'll need a blunt answer from you, Holmes. Do you share my feelings or not?"

He asked the question with a rather stiff upper lip. He seemed prepared for the worst and the honesty in him excited Holmes. Holmes leaned in closer to Watson and over his shoulder.

"Come away with me, Watson," Holmes said rather animatedly, "to France."

"To France?" Watson asked, struggling to turn around and face Holmes.

"I'll not be a criminal, Watson, and neither shall you," Holmes pointed out, "However, France conveniently has no law against buggery."

"Buggery!" Watson shouted, "Holmes I never agreed to be buggered!"

"Regardless of who buggers whom" Holmes said, "we'll have the opportunity to- to _consummate_ in France... among other things."

Watson seemed to ponder this for a moment. It certainly seemed a superior alternative to repressing the emotions and urges and/or distancing from each other.

"France is no England," Watson warned Holmes.

Holmes rolled his eyes. Leave it to Watson to attempt to put a damper on things.

"I believe I will survive," Holmes said flatly.

"And how do you presume to afford this run away plan?"

"You're the gambler, Watson, not I," Holmes said with some arrogance, "I'll have you know that I've been saving up my wages for over a year. There's more than enough to begin anew."

Holmes had managed to amass a small fortune from the money he made off of his nonsense inventions. Oliver did after all give Holmes a cut of the profit in addition to daily wages for all of his work and Holmes had so few personal expenses that the money quickly built up.

"So what you're telling me is" Watson concluded, "that you _do_ share the same feelings as I have?"

Holmes put a hand on Watson's shoulder. He smiled in way that conveyed both superiority and sincerity.

"I begged you not to get married, spoiled your bachelor party, and invaded your honeymoon not to mention threw your wife off of a train, well timed as it was. I've also pestered you for attention, allowed you stay with me for months, kissed you once while you were sleeping and now I'm sitting in a tub naked with you discussing our get away to a new life in France," Holmes summed up, "My dear, Watson, it's all quite elementary don't you think?"

Watson smiled at this. Watson did have a lovely smile despite the fact that it was beginning to become buried in his unruly facial hair. Holmes rather liked Watson's mustache when it was groomed and kept. The first time he had snuck a kiss from Watson it was a bit tickling but pleasant. This new 'natural' look however indeed needed to go.

"Wait a moment," Watson said, "you kissed me when I was asleep? When did you do that?"

Holmes ignored the question entirely and stood up from the bath. The water cascaded off of him, rolling down tan shoulders and strong abs. Watson almost averted his eyes, a motion he was accustomed to doing but instead he allowed himself to look albeit with the upmost guilt. Holmes was amused by this but decided not to embarrass his friend any further.

"Glad to see that you are sufficiently yourself again," Holmes declared as he reached some foreign fabric and began to dry himself, "Taking care of you was becoming excruciatingly bothersome."

Watson looked off to his left with some annoyance. To some point Holmes was making a joke and to another he was serious. If only Holmes had the slightest clue as to what a bother it was for Watson to be responsible for Holmes. He'd have an entirely new definition of bothersome. Still, it comforted Watson to know that he could depend on Holmes.

"And where are you off to in such a hurry?" Watson asked.

Holmes had practically jumped into a set of clothes. He was already beginning the process of applying his false nose and his faux beard was ready in hand.

"Watson," Holmes said, "If we desire to begin our journey to France before tomorrow's end, I'll need to make preparations."

Watson turned once more in the tub disturbing the water once more.

"And who said I agreed to this?" Watson pointed out.

Holmes half ignored him as he stuck on his beard. It was a magnificent false beard. It was made from yak hair and he'd managed to score it off a retired actor. It was a shame it wouldn't see much use in the near future.

_Then again it is itchy._

"You didn't protest either," Holmes said before giving Watson's statement some serious thought, "Do you protest?"

Watson didn't want to answer at first. He just looked at Holmes very quietly. His fingers laid on the edge of the tub. He was sitting up right with his back against the metal. He looked very dignified for a naked man in a bath.

"You look positively ridiculous like that," Watson said as opposed to answering.

"I asked you a question, Watson," Holmes redirected, "Do you protest or not?"

Holmes could feel himself being held up by a thread. Watson had their whole future in his hand at the moment and the lack of control frightened Holmes. He should have never asked and just whisked Watson away to France as planned.

"I'm not protesting," Watson said finally, allowing Holmes to breathe again, "I just don't understand why it has to be France. Isn't there anywhere else?"

"I'm not taking you to Paris, Watson," Holmes argued, "I was thinking a bit smaller but nothing near a country side. You know I don't do well outside of cities for too long. In any case if France proves to be unbearable then perhaps we'll migrate to Italy in a year or two."

"Italy?" Watson asked, "It's legal in _Italy_?"

"Nearing legal," Holmes answered, "By my research it should be legal by 1889 at the latest."

Watson had now taken on the task of cleaning himself. He had gotten rather repulsive in hindsight. He felt his upper lip and nearly backed away from his own mustache were that physically possible. He would need a shave after this. Perhaps he'd see a barber and get a proper look over all, might as well be clean and groomed before travelling.

"How do you know I'll like living in France or Italy for that matter?" Watson asked, "I love England."

"You love me," Holmes said factually.

He paused at the door and silence flooded the room once more. They were both unaccustomed to the blatancy of such a statement and the intimacy that was implied by it. That Holmes could so quickly assert that Watson loved him felt strange but then this was the way they were with one another.

"And I you," Holmes finished up for fear of Watson feeling is affections were one sided, "We'll find a place and means, Watson. You leave that to me."

Holmes left the apartment and Watson slowly got out of the tub. He reached for the same cloth Holmes had used and dried himself before putting on a pair of underwear and some slacks. He eyed the bed but refused it. The last thing he needed was to end up there again and be forever trapped in contemplation. Instead he dug around the small closet located in the corner for a suit case. Once he retrieved it he began packing things.

In a way, Watson still felt uncomfortable with all of this. He wanted to go that was certain but he was also terrified. Holmes was a handful just as a partner who knew how difficult he would become as a lover. The word lover made Watson's stomach turn but he focused on packing.

Watson still felt, in a weird way, that he was obligated to Mary. Before Mary left for the funeral she suggested that Watson think about running away with whoever he was seeing. Watson was at a loss for words when she had said that and more surprised that within her anger she was being sincere. Mary was equally unhappy as Watson was. They cared for one another and they had truly made the effort but it simply was not working. Watson of course refused the notion both feeling guilty at having feelings for another and feeling embarrassed as he was unable to accept those feelings. Mary had chosen to go to the funeral alone because while Watson would have provided emotional support for her it would have been no more support than any other friend Mary could have asked to attend. Worse, it would simply remind them both that they were incompatible try as they did to be compatible.

That's why Watson took Holmes' initial proposal to run away so poorly. It was a combination of not wanting to give up on his dead marriage and not wanting to come to terms with how he felt toward Holmes. It's also why he took Mary's death as hard as he did.

In retrospect though, Watson realized that if Mary had lived he would have just trapped her in a fruitless marriage and in addition to that Watson may have lost Holmes forever. Mary would never have wanted that and Watson was beginning to accept and embrace that idea. As Watson finished packing a few final items, he made the decision to visit his late wife's grave before he and Holmes left for France.

_I'll bring flowers. Tell her how and how much I did love her and thank her for everything she was willing to do for me. She really was the most beautiful and intelligent woman I've ever known. She's the only one I'll ever love._

With that Watson propped the suit case against a wall and made his leave of the apartment. As he walked down the stairs and out of the back entrance he began to feel more and more comfortable with everything. He was going to be with Holmes as he should have been with him since the start. He was going to start a new life but first and foremost, he was going to say goodbye.

**A/N: I'm not sure if I'll end this here. It's debatable but I'll mark it as complete until further notice in case I never add another chapter. Which if I do, I can pretty much guarantee that it'll be all about hot sex in Franc- er- I mean **_**consummation. **_**Let me know if you guys are happy with it here or if you prefer to have a bit more closure. Reviews and don't forget to sing the petition: Holmes/Watson for the Third Movie. :D**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So, I've been watching Robert and Jude's interviews...and I'm fangirling all over the place. I just- I didn't know I had all this ridiculous amount of feels in my body. They make me so happy that I kind of feel like I'm going to throw up. XD The way they talk to each other doesn't help. "That's not my, Judsie" "Hotson!" And of course, this little exchange; Robert: "Well thank you for jogging my memory that Susan in my wife." Jude: "As opposed to me you mean?"**

**DAMN IT. STOP PLAYING WITH MY EMOTIONS! D: One of you needs to come through already because the tension is making me want to squeal, cry and vomit AND THAT IS JUST FUCKING NOT HEALTHY. |:**

**Oh yeah, I'm writing a story. Right. Here ya go.**

The trip to France was a little awkward for both Holmes and Watson. Watson very calmly studied his newspaper so much so that the letters began to blend with one another. His eyes were locked on foreign images reminiscent of the Queen's English. He'd catch a stray word here and there amongst the print for no other reason than to give his mind something to ponder. The last word he'd looked upon was the word 'military'. His mind spiraled into memories of his time in Afghanistan all hot and dry until it resurfaced into the blurred world of newspaper print.

Alternatively, Sherlock was poised for observations, noting the material the interior of the carriage was crafted from and identifying even the smallest shift of terrain from his seat by the window. He even began to classify the sounds the horses were making from tired, breathy grunts to what he assumed was the occasional winney of annoyance.

Their close quarters only furthered the tension. For the majority of their relationship, their wants and needs of one another went generally unspoken. However this was significantly new territory. Watson was still uncomfortable thinking of Holmes as his lover let alone calling him such. The ex soldier had barely accepted his own feelings let alone Holmes' feelings. In a way he had wished they hadn't felt mutually. It would certainly have been easier in the sense that Watson could have merely thrown his feelings away. If that were possible. However the doctor continued to do what he had always done in regards to the tension; ignore it.

Meanwhile Holmes struggled with what was to be expected of him and his partner. They were going to begin a new life and begin it by being with one another in a much more intimate and sexual way if they were indeed led to become sexual with one another. Holmes often entertained the idea of them never becoming sexual. It seemed a logical alternative to the stress and tribulation sex would achieve. They'd spent all these years together and never even shared a mutual kiss so it appeared feasible they could remain sexless.

Holmes concentrated on Watson very thoroughly. He was determined to block out all the noise of his constant and varying observations and simply focus on one thing and what better thing than Watson since it was second nature to do so and since his beloved doctor was conveniently to his left.

Holmes knew Watson wasn't really reading the paper. He'd had it for an hour at this point and had yet to turn a page. Watson would shuffle his grip on the paper a bit, sending a cascade of crunching sounds into the silence between them. Then the good doctor would twitch his nose slightly sending tiny tremors of movement to his now properly groomed mustache. His eyes were layered above and below with soft lashes, mostly dark brown but rarity was present in a stay blonde lash here and there. Holmes recalled when Watson was blonder but they were younger then.

Holmes fondly reminisced about their beginnings which seemed so far away in time and memory compared to the present. Holmes remembered how quiet Watson used to be and yet how utterly intrigued Watson had been in him. The lonely detective missed those days when his roommate would eye him with curious blue orbs. The distinguished crime solver reasoned though that it was decidedly better to be how they were now with Watson significantly less enchanted; it made life more fluid and normal and often bearable (though not always).Watson still had moments of fascination now and then all present in that shy if not slightly begrudging smile that appeared whenever his madman surprised him. Watson's admiration had simply down graded and its presence had shifted from quiet eyes to restrained lips.

Watson shifted his legs sending the paper rattling once more. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, calculating and observing, and that made him terribly uncomfortable. That brilliantly terrifying man was just staring at Watson and that made the more sane of the pair unable to continue his ritual of grasping words from the paper.

Holmes was noting the way Watson's clothes fell on his body. The prim and proper doctor had stripped some of his finer garments away. He disregarded using a coat or wearing a tie opting for a more comfortable look as they traveled. His shirt had two buttons undone, exposing the slightest tuft of chest hair. Watson's suspenders created a trail from broad shoulders to hidden chest and nipples and down to the waist. There Holmes lingered for a moment before snapping out of his observations and observing something of his own person.

_It appears I've...excited myself._

Holmes tried to position his legs in a way that would hide his arousal. He kept a dignified look on his face as that air false arrogance would somehow distract his partner from the inevitable. Nonetheless the detective tried to discreetly hide his excitement but the small carriage made it rather difficult.

"Holmes," Watson said, having had enough of the other man and shifting, "could you please stop moving? I'm trying to read."

Watson looked over at Holmes at the end of his sentence and immediately noticed that his face was stark red despite his very dignified and unaffected expression. Watson thought it curious and at first didn't understand the color on the other man's face. Sherlock wasn't angry or frustrated in anyway. He was merely looking out the window, his legs crossed at an awkward angle. If anything he was begging to look especially intrigued at what was outside the window.

Watson began his mental checklist of Holme's body to further understand the blush and that was when he noticed it. The detective seemingly found his window so vitally interesting because he was desperately avoiding the arousal present in his pants.

"Oh," Watson said, nervously averting his eyes from Sherlock's bulge, "Well if you expect me to do something about that-"

"I expect nothing," Sherlock said quickly almost sounding irritated.

"Good, because regardless if there's no law in France-"

"Watson," his voice verged on yelling but didn't quite hit the base of his tone.

"- yes?" Watson said still hiding behind his precious newspaper.

"Stop," Sherlock groaned as he turned himself further away from Watson, "talking."

Their final hours of travel were completed in absolute silence as Sherlock realized that not becoming sexual was going to be more difficult than planned and as Watson tried to wipe the image from his mind. Upon arriving in Arles, they made quick haste to their new home. It was more spacious and closer to the outskirts than the inner part of the city. It was a smaller town than Holmes would have liked but Watson insisted that view was lovely so Holmes, so contrary from what he wanted to do, compromised.

Their new home wasn't a big as their home back on Baker Street but then it wasn't as small as the apartment above the shop. Both men had their own rooms as well as others for respective purposes (kitchen, a hallway, even a study). The top floor had only one room but it was larger than the others and Holmes was immediately drawn to it. It was unusual architecture but the large space held favorable conditions for experimentation. Not to mention it led out to a lovely little terrace and Holmes did so enjoy the view.

Unpacking took some effort so much so that they ran out of time to go further into town and search for more furniture. Watson had insisted on bringing an old dresser, something some relative had given him though Holmes hardly cared to recall exactly who. Watson had also brought his desk and that had taken some time to lift into the house. It was a little larger than the doorway so it required a lot of maneuvering. There was also the matter of Holmes' bed.

Holmes had only required one piece of furniture and that was his bed. He was convinced that it had the most favorable attributes due to a small flaw in the carpentry. He knew he would never find another bed like it and felt it was necessary to bring it along and not only that but he was determined to bring it up the stairs to what he had decided was his room.

So after getting the bed up the stairs through a series of pivoting and cursing the detective and the doctor collapsed on the floor. It was already sun down and the persistent lifting, carrying and moving had exhausted them both in addition to the tiring feeling of over a week's worth of travel nagging at their bodies.

Sherlock had long discarded his shirt and perspiration lightly coated his chest and arms. His fingers ran across his hair, furthering dampening his dark locks as he slicked them back. Watson had kept his shirt on but more buttons had been undone revealing more chest hair. He too had began to sweat. The air was permeated by their combined masculine musk and while neither openly confessed to it, they both found it a bit intoxicating.

Watson reached out his hand and touched his friend's shoulder. Together, their heat seemed to mesh. The touch felt hot almost too hot but the shared and growing heat was ignored as best as possible by the doctor who merely smiled at his somewhat surpised companion.

"And you said we'd been finished in an hour," Watson said with an exhausted laugh.

The gesturing hand began it's journey back to its owner but Sherlock's own hand caught it before it slipped away. He held the retreating hand by the wrist. Sherlock eyed his own hand with intrigue as if the digits and palm, the whole arm really, had acted on its own. The heat had exponetially grown as similar sources shared contact. There was fire everywhere in them, spreading from their fingers out and Holmes feared that if he let go of Watson that the fire would exstinguish and with it his very life.

"Holmes," Watson said not pulling his hand away but instead pulling away in his tone. The heat was unbearable and marking them for its own. If they didn't stop now they'd be gone forever. They'd be consumed in their shared flames.

"John," Holmes responded tenderly.

It was odd to hear Holmes refer to Watson by first name. For years they concerned themselves with proper protocal and only occasionally would Holmes refer to his partner as "John". The surprised doctor recalled how it had oringally been Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson when they first met. Somewhere along the way they lost the Mr's more or less around the time they felt comfortable in one another as friends. In all their years together they should have referred to one another by first names much sooner and yet they hadn't. Holmes seemed to be bringing them to another level in that regard by the simple dropping of a name and in so intently. It was up to Watson now to either accept or deny or, the option he seemed to always prefer, neglect it all together.

"Sherlock," Watson said just as quietly.

It almost came out as a question. Holmes had said Watson's first name with resolution but Watson was still verging on indecision. They stayed still for a moment and said nothing to one another. They simply allowed the hot that was growing to expand and search and conquer. It beckoned them to come closer. It merely expanded to bring them together. Their hands met and their fingers laced. Forearm to forearm.

"We can never go back," Watson observed using what was left of his logic. All his mind craved was closeness to the other man. That brilliant, psychotic, beautiful man.

Holmes rolled over and was on top of Watson and the heat between them roared. There was an audible gasp between them, half surprise and half relief. The creaking floor seemed to further soldify the reality of the movement. The madman's eyes were more manic than ever before as the flames behind them reached for the tamed passion hidden behind the blues of his other half.

"I require you," Holmes said, his voice aggressive and sincere all at once, "I require everything that you are, your very being and body."

The words seemed to cup the doctor's face, guiding him by his high cheek bones and pulling him toward Sherlock. Even their breath was burning as their lips neared one other. Their shared fire could only be temporary; it might destroy everything in its path including them but it could burn tamely no longer.

Their mouths met together at long last and the shared embrace of lips was quiet but burning. It was an epiphany, a spark of an almost religious nature. Holmes was a man of logic and science. His body and spirituality always fell to the wayside if it was indeed addressed at all but in this one kiss Holmes felt all things physical and other wordly. Their raging flames had met and in it was unity, passion, desire, fear, love, and this absolute sense of belonging.

Watson felt the urge to further things. He never wanted stop what was happening and he suddenly felt the need and want to make ammends for prolonging such necessary happenings. His tongue licked at his partner's bottom lip. His hands rised from the wooden floor and met with hot, sticky skin. His slightly calloused, slender fingers found their way along the other's man's neck, incidentally feeling the racing pulse under flesh and muscle. They continued on as Holmes opened his mouth, a dark and hot cavern that gave entrace to Watson's tongue. The doctor's quick fingers had wound their way into Sherlock's tangled mane and lovingly began playing amongst the curls and waves.

Holmes felt a sudden inefficiency though. He recalled perfectly how to kiss as he had kissed before. He had read each and every book he had on proper sexual conduct, even read the Karma Sutra (though it was a rough translation). All the past research he'd done hadn't been for any specific reason. It was merely a means to gain information and absorb all knowledge. However at present it seemed to be of personal, practical use but not enough so that Holmes felt comfortable venturing on.

Watson felt the man he was ravishing begin to pull away. Sherlock's tongue became increasingly shyer and his body began to distance from the blue eyed doctor. John stopped the kiss entirely and looked at Holmes feeling rather confused but then how like the madman to intitaite and then refuse to follow through for no other purpose than it not making sense.

"What's the matter?" Watson asked with a sigh and propped himself up on his elbows.

The detective completely removed himself from his companion's person and sat on the floor looking and feeling rather awkward. His round eyes looked off to the to left and far from Watson as if to avoid the eventuality of it all.

"There's something I need to make known to you, John," Holmes said still sounding logical and dignified, "I seem to have a rather-"

_Do not use the word "small"._ Homes thought fleetingly.

"- inadequate amount of experience concerning what I believe is about to follow between us."

Watson sat up and rolled his eyes. He was getting impatient with Holmes, as he often did. It was good in a sense to know that the sexualizing of their relationship hadn't changed things too much.

"Well it's not as if I've had much experience with men either," the doctor responded sarcastically as his loving and practiced fingers found their way to Sherlock's shoulders and began to knead out the tension. It was a surprisingly doting gesture but then Watson unknowngly doted on his partner often. This gesture was just considerably less bregrudging.

Holmes stared at the floor. His mind breifly visited the idea of inserting a secret trap door of some sort into the dark wood before returning to the predicament at hand. He picked at a stray hair that had somehow ended up on the tan, knit fabric of his trousers as he mentally prepared for what he was about to confess.

"I'm not speaking specifically of sexual practices between men," he noted, his voice beginning to sound a little defeated, "The inadequacy to which I'm refering to is that of all forms of consumation. It appears that I possess no in depth knowledge about sexual encounters outside of my ventures in certain literature."

Watson's fingers came to an immediate halt as this information sank in. He knew that Holmes wasn't exactly a sex fiend but he had assumed that natural, human desire had over come his friend at least one or twice in his lifetime. However, Holmes admitted to possesing _no_ experience. None. And Watson had nothing to say to the contrary.

"Surely you've-" the doctor needed to ask before he was sure, "Are you saying that you're a- that you've never-"

"Regretfully so," the virgin detective quickly resolved his doctor's stuttering, "Well, regretfully now. It hasn't been of the slightest detriment to me in the past. However, all things consider between you and I, it seems to be quite the-"Holmes put a hand on top of one of Watson's as if to remind the man to breathe and move, "-predicament."

The reawakened man laced his fingers with his despondent virgin in hopes to comfort him. He sat beside his conflicted partner, never breaking the tight pact of their hands. With a lean but strong arm over Holmes' shoulders, Watson pulled him closer and buried his lips deep into curly, wild hair to find a soft ear and tickled it with a whisper.

"Your entire being is a predicament," he noted playfully.

The whisper sent a tingle over Sherlock's body. John's mouth was hot and his breath sensually embraced the slightly older man's lobe. Meanwhile the good doctor took in the smell of his madman, a musky scent accompanied by a hint of gund powder and bite of alcohol. He smelled of danger and adventure and yet Watson knew that deep down this man was pure, untouched and that somehow excited him all the more.

This was the beginning of the moment Holmes would never forget. Granted, Holmes forgot nothing but this was to be the overpowering lingering observation he'd cling to in times of trouble and in celebration. It would appear like backdrop in his vision but the act and sight of it all _was_ a vision and one of beauty.

Watson rose from the floor. His longs legs and lean arms gracefully swept themselves up and aligned into standing, militant posture. He stood there sturdy and strong as a soldier and yet graceful and beautiful as a dancer and in all ways dignified. Those blue eyes, those Watson blue eyes looked at Holmes with the upmost sincerity and affection that Holmes knew deep down he didn't deserve but took all the same. His beloved's gesture began at the fingertips which over the years had at times dressed Holmes and dressed his wounds. They began to expand outwards and the movement spread to the hand to the forearm and to the bicep as fluid as poured cream.

Holmes met his love's hand hestantly and felt not a fire but a coolness. This was not act of pure passion but rather a very deliberate though gentle occassion. This was something beautiful and truly sacred. If their love was a religion then this simple act was a prayer and what laid before them was a miracle. It had to be. Holmes would never get involved in something of this sort unless it was indeed miraculous.

Watson lifted Holmes up and held his hand with a stern softness as he led him to the bed. He was not going to make love to this beautiful man on the floor like some common whore. They were not going to merely get lost in a fit of burning desires. This was a delicate situation and it called for every motion and word to be absolutely deliberate. Watson intended to show his his friend, his soul mate, exactly what their physical bodies had to offer and not only that but at long last he intended to express his feelings through the body and how secretly exciting it was to know that he'd be the one and only to do so to the famed and acclaimed Sherlock Holmes.

"Lay down, Sherlock," the calm and leading ex miltary man directed softly.

Holmes obliged. He lied on his back completely vunerable and disposable to Watson in every way. He gave a capricious look to the terrace window and saw a glimpse of the night sky. How strange it was to have their roles reversed. Granted, the good doctor had always been the manic man's keeper and caretaker but when it came to treading through new territories, Holmes always lead the way. Now the experienced detective had to sit back and allow his protege to take over and show _him_ what to look for and what to do and how to be.

John climbed over his partner and lovingly kissed him once more. Kissing was something Holmes could do and he took pride in that trying to make the most of his talent and knowledge. Somehow one of each of their hands met the other's and their fingers intertwined. The gesture calmed Holmes further and his tongue fluttered in Watson's mouth as he realxed. The relaxation was short lived though as Watson began to kiss down the neck, then the chest. His lips ghosted a nipple before contuining to the abs. With his free hand, the doctor pulled at Holmes' waistband, tugging it until it revealed a fully erect and impressive member.

There was direct eye contact as Watson gave a final teasing kiss on the virgin man's pubis. Soft, pouty lips that were so often saturated in sarcasm and annoyance were kind as they laid their affection on the soft curls above Holmes' member. Their locked stare was intense and yet decisive.

Watson's mouth opened, his lips in a round 'o' as he began to take in his parnter. With just the tip christened Holmes nearly jerked back completely new to the sensation. He'd never even imagined the physical feeling it would envoke, having someone's mouth around his member. So many years he'd spent as a borderline asexual to only have his strictly celebate life undone by his doctor who moved him in so many ways. Watson took note of the reaction and once again put his slender and well practiced fingers to use. He massaged the thighs of his new lover as he slowly engulfed more of him in his mouth.

Despite the blissful pleasures of hot and wet on his cock, Holmes refused to throw his head back or close his eyes. Instead his eyes remained open, erotically watching while simaltaneously feeling fascinated. How could this proper, English gentlemen have it in him to use his lips and tongue to make love to another man's genetalia? Especially when it was just Holmes who, even with a healthy dose of narcisism, felt as if he did not deserve such affections?

_He must be incredibly fond of me_, the detective thought.

Watson had now taken in all he could manage of his dear parnter. The tip gently pushed against the back of the doctor's throat and threatened to gag if anymore were taken. Once more he looked up to make eye contact with the man he was ravishing to find wide, almost innocent eyes and very obviously held breath.

Similarly, Holmes observed and could remember that face for forever; Watson physically expressing their deep bond and looking up with reassurance and tenderness. Those beautiful eyes, overcast in grey but then spiraling in hues of the clearest summer blue. God his eyes never did change did they? Those eyes that were so much like the sky, rising in and out of their colors and set behind heavy lids. Those gorgeous, expressive orbs were the obsessed man's horizon, the sky of his mind, always changing but always there.

Watson pulled back allowing Holmes' well coated member to slide out of his mouth. The virgin man's rigid body twitched from both pleasure and the pain of an exit only to have Watson stop before releasing the tip. He then gave a hard suck that nearly sent Sherlock's eyes rolling back. Then, with expert rhythym and creative alternations of sucking and bobbing, the doctor began to please his so called patient with a kind eagerness.

Holmes felt this odd bundle of nerves in his stomach that seemed to radiate and tingle his whole body. It was like being on fire all over and teetering on the edge of a volcanic eruption. It was like grasping to the edge of a wall and being thousands of feet in the air. The routinely adventerous detective often did not feel such adrenaline and verge but he nonetheless was intoxicated by it now. Watson's lips were things of beauty as they edged in and splayed out with his bobbing. His tongue was a curious creature that carressed and rounded every curve and crevice of the member it had laid claim over. Those gorgeously long and thin fingers expertly rubbed up and down strong muscular thighs as if to calm the easily excited man. One of those fair hands strayed deeper into the thigh, gave the testicles a fleeting graze and then began rubbing Holmes' entrance. There was a throaty groan from the receving man who barely questioned why or what the touch was for at least until Watson inserted a finger. Unofrtunatel that stray finger caused Holmes to jerk back. His cock sprung out of the other man's mouth and he stared at the man with still wide eyes but also a now furrowed brow.

"John?" he asked, questiong the good doctor's move.

He merely looked at him with that damn sensible gaze. He brought his finger to his mouth noticing an absence of foul odor. He repressed a smirk realizing that Holmes had prepared for this before briefly wondering where in the world the all knowing detective had found the time and privacy to have done so.

"It won't hurt for long," he assured, using his best doctoral tone before sucking on his index finger and coating it in hot saliva.

"Is that your professional opinion?" Sherlock asked as he watched John suck on a second finger.

"Come now," he responded before he popped out the second digit and then circled his tongue sloppily around his ring finger, "making jokes is only going to kill the mood."

As a slight punishment, Watson shoved his index finger into his partner with some unecessary force and it elicited a pained and irritated growl. However, the semi violent entrace was pardoned as he licked his free hand and met it to Holmes' nelgected cock. The combination of the jerking palm and the succesively invading fingers brought about a blur of pleasure and pain that forced the detective to wince his eyes closed. When the third finger entered him, he let out a sharp hiss. John was throrough in stretching his parter much to the poor detective's chargin but as long as he focused on that merciful hand grazing up and down his shaft, he could carry on and, in all honesty, he'd been through much worse anyway.

Finally, the doctor deduced that his partner was primed for true penetration. The walls and grip of his rectum provided slight resistance but not so much that entering would cause damage to them. He was a bit surprised that Holmes had managed to last so long without ejaculating but then his dearest companion did have a never ending determination and an iron will. With a quickness Watson grabbed his lover under the knees and lifted him into a more ideal position. His own member was begging for attention and release, already leaking pre cum into Holmes' hole as it rubbed against it.

As John looked up at Sherlock he noticed his partner's hand held up, fingers out as if to signal a need to halt. Being the agressor he suddenly felt a sense of guilt. Perhaps the virgin man wasn't ready for this all at once. Maybe he would never be ready. He was, in all reality, sexless up until this point. How overwhelming had this been? However, those beautiful, brown, pupppy dog eyes spoke to the contrary, egged him on and almost quivering lips spoke;

"Do take my hand, John," he instructed.

The doctor nodded before taking his lover's hand into his own. Once more their fingers were bound to the spaces of the others'. Sherlock gave a breif nod of approval and Watson put his free hand onto the other man's tan waist. His cock once more was aimed for enterance and he felt the receiving man tense up.

"Breathe," the doctor advised gently.

Holmes took a deep breath and then let it out heavily, another nod and a renewed grip on Watson's captive fingers and then the dominant man because to press in.

There were not not enough nor specific enough of words to describe the invasiveness that Holmes felt as his hole took in inch after painful inch. There's was a sudden desire to stop, to take this foreign and never ending member out of him but beyond that there was the consciousness of the situation at hand and what it all really meant. This was part of sex, this was a part of love; this forcedness and opening up to it. Harsh, sharp breaths and a deep throated moan accented the air and after what felt like an eternity, Watson was at long last fully in. They stopped there for a moment to share yet another deep stare and as they gazed at one another, Holmes felt his body switch into an entirely different mood. It was if something clicked in him and what was once intrusive to the point of being unwanted felt comfortably at home. This empty space in the madman was whole again and the world, while it had always made sense, came together in much bigger way than he could have imagined.

John carefully rocked his member inside of Holmes. He took caution to not let the heat and tighteness overwhelm him though it came very close to doing so. It was the firmest of embraces he'd ever experienced and the tight fingers clutching his palm into a pressured whiteness seemed feint. The sight of Sherlock was equally as arousing. Those wild waves of hair were back and sticking together as bead of sweat formed and fell from the brow. Struggling eyes fought their urge to wince close and the detective's lips were in a slight pout that show cased his gritting teeth. It was all punctuated by the sound of Sherlock's breathe and the teasingly gulped down moans until one such moan was fully released, erupting in a full and hearty "oh".

Holmes hadn't the slightest idea what Watson had managed to do inside of his body but it was like a solid right hook of pleasure and it sent him spilling right over the edge. With that one firm and suprising hit, Holmes had released his seed all over the surprised doctor's abs. All the tingling nerves in the detective's body slowly swept him over with a clamness and his eye lids fluttered as his gripping fingers loosened. This entire scene aroused John even more who took it upon himself to quicken his pace a bit. He eyed his lover's member which was slowly drowning in its own semen and roughly seven pumps later the doctor came over the edge as well allowing his seed to mark his partner's insides.

Watson pulled out and pulled away. The two men lingered their fingers for a minute before both coming to the shared conclusion that they couldn't hold hands for forever. Watson nudged for space and Holmes managed to lay on his side even in his stupor and sudden need to sleep. The unofficial dominate threw an arm around his now deflowered Holmes and snuggled his face in the crook of his lover's neck. Holmes took in a deep breath, his eyes suddenly awake as he went to make some sort of revelation.

"You say anything to ruin this, and I swear I'll make you sleep on the floor," Watson said before Holmes could manage to get out a single word.

The prepared breath came out flat and Holmes thought better of his revelation. Once more the beckoning sleepness called to him. It was obvious it had now conquered Watson as Holmes could hear that signature, light snore of his edging his breath. The often manic man put a hand on top of the one that lazily embraced his chest and together Holmes and Watson drifted into sleep.

**A/N: It's so late and I am so tired and I know this will probably require even more editing and goodness isn't this the longest lemon I've ever written because it sure does feel like it but it's tasty right? Right. Okay bed time. Review and such. Oh and sign the petition and spread it to your friends like herpes. Kay, night.**


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